


Hypoxia

by katineto (mistalagan)



Series: Hypothermia [2]
Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, M/M, Multi, POV Multiple
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-11-07
Updated: 2018-12-05
Packaged: 2019-08-20 02:17:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16546910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mistalagan/pseuds/katineto
Summary: The great Rus’ Empire has secured its victory over the Yashima, and the Tsar’s heir Viktor Nikiforov happily treats his exotic war-prize to the very heights of luxury. But it’s not only the Yashima who are discontent, and between scheming nobles, rebellious provinces, and a burgeoning revolutionary middle class, Tsar and empire both are beginning to crumble at the edges. Indeed, Viktor himself is not so loyal as he likes to pretend, and his new husband not so meek…





	1. Relations

**Author's Note:**

> Hello and welcome!
> 
> Here I'll leave a general disclaimer that this is a pseudohistorical fantasy setting, and I do not intend to accurately portray any real-life events, nations, or people. Characters are aged up from canon by several years.
> 
> Please note that this is the sequel to an existing work, Hypothermia, which contains explicit torture and rape scenes. If you would like to read this without reading that, a brief summary is contained in the end notes below, along with more detailed warnings.

_**Grigory Gavrilovich Yeliseyev, merchant and entrepreneur** _

Grigory has to admit, the man makes for an attractive accessory. He’d somewhat expected to be put off: Easterners with their slanted eyes, sallow skin, and sly, delicate features can hardly as a rule be said to be appealing, or so go the crude jokes and tipsy speculations by the would-be intellectuals at the late-night salons. (Bizarre facial features, in this case, are frequently set in opposition to incoherent babbling as evidence for arguments about Viktor’s preference—front or back.)

Those idle carousers, Grigory decides almost immediately upon seeing the man, are drastically wrong. Viktor’s consort’s eyes are large and dewy; his skin is a warm, even color, a far cry from the sickly, jaundiced shades of the popular prints; his face, though delicate, is undoubtedly masculine and far from conniving. He hardly speaks, though he does greet Grigory in halting Rus’ accompanied by a short and endearing bow.

“He speaks Rus’!” Grigory laughs, surprised, after returning the greeting (even the bow—why not make the man comfortable?)

“He speaks enough,” Viktor corrects, with a lilt to his voice and the hint of a wink, like Grigory’s been let in on some harmless secret. Indeed, the man merely blinks, naively, at the continuing conversation.

In this case, Grigory can certainly extrapolate on what _enough_ refers to. “Ah,” he returns with a wink of his own, “Well, welcome!” and sweeps his hand towards the small table set with tea and three chairs. He’d been unsure about the latter, but he’s made the right choice: Viktor pulls out a chair for his consort before sitting down himself.

Incidentally, in following behind them, Grigory finds new evidence for the posterior theory, though he can’t discount the probable appeal of looking down at those long eyelashes and pert lips. It’s not his trade at all—the logistics are a nightmare—but if the other Yashima are anything like this one, he’ll set a bug in the ear of certain merchants to look towards picking up more exotic beauties. They’ll certainly be popular in the lonely, cold north, at least, and probably in the more cosmopolitan cities as well. He has no doubt that plenty of the barbarians themselves will be happy to travel to more civilized lands.

 **“** Viktor Fyodorovich,” Grigory says with a sigh as he sits, “It’s been a long time! You are doing quite well, it seems. Tea?” He busies himself with pouring out the concentrate, passing a cup to Viktor first, who in turn fills it with hot water before setting it in front of his consort and nudging a plate of dainties over.

(He _does_ feed him, then. Grigory’s heard terrible things about the martial nobility and their foreign toys. What kind of cultural superiority can be shown with mere abuse?)

“Mmm, yes,” Viktor agrees, “And I could hardly miss the chance to reconnect with old friends as I passed through, of course. Yourself?”

Inwardly, Grigory preens. He’d never be so bold as to refer to himself as Viktor’s _friend_ , certainly not on the basis of their university days—they’d conversed, of course, and Viktor had been uncommonly attentive to someone like Grigory, who’d not a prince’s or even petty landowner’s heritage to his name. If Viktor says so, though—well, it doesn’t hurt one bit to be considered the Tsesarevich’s friend.

Now, though, he must be careful, friend or no. More valuable men than he have found their fortunes drastically—occasionally fatally—lowered by disparaging the autocrat’s policies. Yet wouldn’t his colleagues be woefully upset to hear he’d said nothing at all?

A friend in the right place, he reflects, is a dangerous thing indeed. He spreads his hands wide. “Well, with such a decisive end to the war, all our fortunes are looking quite bright! A little belt-tightening here at home will prove worth it, I’m sure. Business is picking up. Never have I had such sales. They say we drink to mourn and drink to celebrate, but certainly celebration has proven the greater of the two.”

Viktor hums. “I’m always impressed,” he says, “By those of our country who build themselves their own little empires, starting from nothing.”

There’s the thing about Viktor—not all the nobility are so impressed. There are those who bitterly fight for the right to trade licenses to be restricted to those of sufficient rank, for instance. And are offended by the decision, as in Grigory’s case, to choose not to climb the ladder of ranks at all.

“Not nothing,” Grigory demurs, “I would be nowhere without good fortune and kindness from the licensors.”

“Kindness?” Viktor taps one finger against his teacup. “Our officials are charged with selecting the most advantageous contracts. I can’t imagine kindness should come into it.”

“Ah, well,” Grigory backtracks, “Figuratively. Of course.”

“Of course. Tell me, Grisha—may I call you Grisha?—are you well acquainted with your fellows in the wool trade?” Viktor stares down a tiny pastry, turning it back and forth, seemingly disinterested in Grigory’s answer.

Wool is the Raskazov’s business, in this city at least, and young Nikitos Nikitich also attends Masha’s salons on occasion. They’ve made a killing on military supply, these past few years, yet never seemed to struggle to keep up with demand. Nikitos, at least, has no shortage of pocket change. “Not well! But we run into each other from time to time.” The middle ground is the safest answer.

“Hmm.” Viktor sighs, and places the pastry on his consort’s plate. The young man has been slowly nibbling his way through a delicate sandwich, sipping at his tea, and occasionally blinking up at Grigory with his big wide eyes. He’s adorable, in a way—it’s almost unbelievable that his countrymen had caused them so much trouble, if this is an example of one of their soldiers.

“I only wonder,” Viktor continues, “if perhaps some others may have been the recipients of—kindness. Not figuratively.” He quirks a smile. “I’m led to believe that the quality of some of our brave soldiers’ clothing may have decreased. Soldiers complain, of course, but wouldn’t it be a shame if the crown was paying wool prices for mere shoddy?”

“A terrible thing to contemplate, indeed,” Grigory agrees quickly, suddenly quite glad he’s only had the barest of military contracts, given the glint in Viktor’s eye.

Maybe the Tsesarevich will not be so receptive to the merchants’ woes after all.

“Still!” Viktor raises his teacup in something of a toast. “We have, after all, won.” Here he snakes a hand around his consort’s shoulders, letting it rest across his sternum. “And we will soon replace wool with fine silk, courtesy of our Yashiman brothers.”

 _Silk_. Grigory breathes out. Silk, but for him, _tea_ , and fine teacups to go with it. He was too young and ill-established to work his way into the negotiations around Campanian trade, but here—oh, the possibilities.

Careful, careful. Viktor is frowning. “Soon being a relative term, of course.” He pats his hand against his consort’s chest, stroking it gently: the man turns his attention fully to Viktor, leaning into his encircling arm. “It will unfortunately require no small investment to even feed our new countrymen appropriately, let alone restart manufacturing.”

Lord, if it’s money the autocrat wants, it’s money he’ll get. Grigory is already drawing up the loan terms in his mind.

But—“It’s not a matter for you to worry over, though. Annexation may be a long and laborious process, but you are quite correct—us Rus’ will always pay for our liquor. Though it may require some continued belt-tightening, hmm? Five, ten years. Longer, depending on how intractable the Yashima continue to be.”

Grigory swallows back his disappointment in favor of a growing horror at the yawning chasm of monetary loss Viktor projects stretching out before them. “Ten years?” he laughs, nervously, glancing again at the consort. He nods towards him. “They hardly seem so intractable.”

“Don’t they? …oh.” Viktor’s voice softens, and his gaze, too, as he turns to stare into his consort’s eyes. “My Yuuri is not quite representative, I’m afraid. Even he would admit—he’s hardly a warrior. Enough to take up arms in defense of his home, but,” he chuckles, shaking his head. “No, my Yuuri is an artist. A dancer. Soft, at heart.” He traces a finger over the heart in question. “Perhaps not the best political choice. Yet how could I resist?”

“How, indeed,” Grigory says, observing that softness, that malleability. The way Yuuri looks at Viktor like he is his whole world.

“I wish I could have him dance for you!” Viktor exclaims. “Alas, he is still too poorly. I must fatten him up first. And I admit, I am a jealous man: I too often think that he should dance for me, and me alone.” His other hand comes up to trace Yuuri’s lips, and Yuuri flushes a pale, comely pink. It’s a long moment before Viktor pulls away.

Soft. Grigory wonders—how did such a man come to Viktor’s attention, anyway? “Was he, ah, helpful?” he asks delicately. “During the war?”

“Helpful?” Viktor’s eyes narrow. “Oh. No, no. Grigory, do not mistake softness for disloyalty. Indeed it takes more loyalty, more courage, for such a gentle man to learn to fight, than it does for a belligerent who delights in war games. My Yuuri—“ he shakes his head. “No, not at all. But, that’s why we take consorts, isn’t it?”

Is it?

Grigory’s confusion must show. “That in coming to love me, he should come to love Rus’; that in caring for him, I should make an effort to care for his brethren,” Viktor elaborates. “It’s all quite symbolic. And becomes much less so were we to take traitors.

“Anyway! Money and trade and politics aside, tell me: is it true you’ve finally gone and gotten married? Come, come, these topics are much too heavy…”

Grigory settles into small talk. Perhaps, if he is lucky, he can salvage this conversation after all.

_**Pyotr Artyomovich, personal valet to the Tsesarevich** _

It’s comforting to have steady work again.

Pyotr, with his frail heart, did not go to war, not in the way Vitya did, tall and glorious; not in the way his darling sister Olechka did, young and full of fire; not even in the way the camp-followers did, mending clothes and mending wounds. Pyotr stayed in Rus’, useless, ancillary, enduring the taunts and jeers of the soldiers soon to be sent out.

They were right, though, all of them: Pyotr is a coward, frail heart or no. When Vitya had turned to him, splendid in his conviction, and told him there was no need for him to go, Pyotr had accepted without hesitation. It was out of necessity, he’d told himself—who else would look to his father?

Papa is, for now, safe and sound in the capital, being looked after by a hired caretaker he insists he doesn’t need. It makes Pyotr unduly anxious to be away, but—well.

It’s comforting, too, to know that Vitya had immediately asked for him upon his triumphant return. It is his job to be quietly indispensable, and how he has felt so, so, dispensable these last two years.

Pyotr doesn’t interact with Vitya much, directly. It isn’t necessary. He tallies the Tsesarevich’s personal pocketbook, lays out and cares for his clothes—now his consort’s too, but that is hardly much more work—ensures that their travel and lodging will be smooth and safe. He arranges the meetings Vitya wants, official and unofficial. He keeps out of the way, but is always available when called.

He is only passing by the doorway when he hears their voices, and it is in a moment of weakness that he stops to listen.

Vitya speaks to his consort in Albian, mostly, as they have ever since Vitya followed the man to Columbia these several years ago. Sometimes, he slips into fond Yashiman, a language which Pyotr never quite learned; occasionally Rus’, which Yuuri now speaks fluently but with a hesitant accent. Vitya always had a gift for language, though he could easily have bought arrays of translation spells if he’d needed to. Papa taught Pyotr Albian, and Gallian, and Allaman, and bits and pieces of many other things, because they’d never be able to afford custom spellwork to such an extent. Papa always said spellwork can be mimicked with regular work, and sometimes better done that way.

“Darling,” Vitya is saying, “You need to rest.”

“All I do is rest,” Yuuri replies, in a harsher tone than most would dare use in front of a Nikiforov. “Rest, and flutter my eyelashes, and look pretty. I’m only _stretching_ , Vitya. You act as if I can’t stand the cold.”

“That’s not what I mean. I know you’re not—I don’t want you to tire yourself out, that’s all.”

The resulting chill reaches Pyotr, even in the next room. He stiffens.

He hadn’t known, those years ago, on that cold and cloudy morning when Vitya had demanded any and all information about Yuuri. It hadn’t been the first time Vitya had asked him for something particular, even someone particular. He’d thought nothing of it, at first, even when upon finally delivering the man’s location, name, and livelihood he’d seen Vitya’s eyes light up like they hadn’t for years. Even when he’d run off to Columbia to find him.

He’d helped, time and time again. There wasn’t a tryst they’d had that Pyotr doesn’t remember. And when he’d heard the news—that Vitya had chosen a Yashiman consort—Pyotr had known unquestionably who it would be.

When Vitya had returned, when Vitya had immediately asked for Pyotr, he’d done as he’s always done, and arranged things. There’s an uneasy feeling in his gut, though, now, a creeping terror.

Vitya’s consort is ensorcelled. He can’t hurt Vitya, can’t go against his wishes, can’t choose to do anything Vitya doesn’t want him to. He can’t even tell him a simple lie. Yet—Pyotr knows that those damn cuffs that Vitya had asked for are worthless, not iron but mere nickel, replicas that do nothing to rein in Yuuri’s magic. He knows that the chill in the air that touches him now isn’t coming from Vitya.

Pyotr is afraid.

“Well, I’m not tired,” Yuuri snaps.

Viktor is silent, then huffs. “Well, I am. Talking with these people is exhausting. _I’ll_ go rest, then. And you—just—“ his voice thickens, stutters to a halt. “I’ll go rest.”

Footsteps, the rustling of cloth. The dry sound of skin on skin. “I’m not weak, Vitya,” Yuuri says, softly.

“I don’t think you are.”

A kiss, the wet sound unmistakable. Pyotr can imagine the scene: Yuuri reaching his arms up, Vitya turning halfway back to meet him. They pull away. Yuuri runs his fingers familiarly through Vitya’s hair. “I’ll join you soon,” he murmurs, his low voice a silken promise. To most, it would sound innocently seductive; to Pyotr, it sounds dangerous.

“You know I don’t like treating you like that,” Vitya says, almost incongruously, “Or the way they look at you. I don’t—I don’t _want_ you to have to flutter your eyelashes, and look pretty. Well. You always look pretty. But…”

“It won’t be for long. Will it?”

Shifting. Rustling. “No,” Vitya says at last. “Not for long.”

“My Vityenka,” Yuuri says, as if he is the one who has won a war prize. Maybe he has. Pyotr shivers. He clenches his fists.

Pyotr is to be quietly indispensable, and keep out of the way.

He turns away from the door, and makes his way down the hallway. Vitya will be meeting up with old Nikolai Plisetsky soon, and Pyotr ought to prepare. He always liked the Plisetskys, before the whole mess with Sofia and Mikhail. A solid family, that, not prone to petty whims.

_**Grand Prince Yuri Nikolaevich Plisetsky, only nephew of the Tsar** _

When the last petitioner is gone from the hall, and only the guards remain, the Tsar sits silent for a long time. Yuri hasn’t been dismissed, so he sits there, too, in a throne that’s uncomfortably large. _With Viktor’s buttprint all over it_ , he thinks viciously, _damn him._ If he’d just behaved, Yuri wouldn’t be here.

“Yuri,” the Tsar rumbles at last, and Yuri is just about ready to leap out of his seat. The Tsar turns sharp eyes towards him, though, so he just nods in acknowledgement.

“Your Majesty.”

The Tsar smiles, and for that moment, Yuri can see Viktor in his face, where normally they seem so different. “You look so like your mother.”

“Thank you, your Majesty,” he replies, as if he hasn’t heard _that_ a million times before.

“Hardly anything like your father.”

Yuri’s heart beats a little faster. Nobody ever says much about his father. A war hero, he’s told, who threw himself recklessly on the enemy’s weapons after his wife’s untimely death. Yet Yuri’s official patronymic has always been his grandfather’s name, not Mikhailovich as it ought to be.

“As if,” the Tsar sighs, “her spirit passed out of her body directly into yours. The Easterners believe in reincarnation, do you know?”

“Uh.” Yuri stutters briefly. “Yes,” he decides, thinking frantically back to his cultural lessons.

(Unbidden, he thinks also of those dead men, burning. Had their souls already left their bodies? Are they already reborn? Will they remember, will they come for him, with blackened hands curled into fists and terror in their eyes?)

“Hmph.” The Tsar turns forward once again, and says nothing for another long stretch of time. Yuri wonders if Viktor ever had to deal with this. Viktor probably deserved it, though.

“Yuri,” he says, testing the words, “Nikolaevich—hmph—Plisetsky.” He rises quite abruptly from his seat. “No more. You’ll be Yuri Fyodorovich Nikiforov. Dismissed.”

Yuri sits frozen, mute, before shakily rising with a deep bow. “Yes, your Majesty. It’s a great honor,” he adds, fruitlessly—the Tsar is already leaving.

He ought to be honored, but his only thought as he stumbles through the hallways is, _God, what has Viktor done now?_

It’s late afternoon in the fall, and the sun gives little warmth to the air. Like an ice mage, Yuri needs no coat; unlike an ice mage, he must be deliberate, producing his own heat in an insulating layer. He’d struggled with it when he was young, always winding up too hot and scalding anyone who came close. He’s better now.

The barracks of the Imperial Guard squats moodily across from the palace, utilitarian rather than baroque. Although occupied primarily by the palace guard—the Tsar’s personal life-guards being housed elsewhere—other regiments, returning home, have been billeted there lately.

Yuri is looking for one man in particular, in the cavalry barracks. When he blazes through the gates and into a practice yard, the soldiers who recognize him startle to attention, elbowing their peers. The soldiers who _really_ recognize him are more relaxed, though they don’t resume their conversations until he’s passed by.

Otabek has his own tiny room, a privilege afforded to officers. Yuri hardly bothers to knock before bursting in. As Otabek turns to see who it is, his expression is sharp, but softens when he sees Yuri.

“Come spar with me,” Yuri demands, “I’ve been sitting all day, it’s driving me crazy. I haven’t had a good fight since”—since he was actually fighting for his life—“for _weeks._ ”

Otabek’s smile is only apparent to someone who knows him. He turns back to the bed, where he’s sorting through a pile of possessions. “There’s plenty of soldiers out there who’d give you a good fight. I’m hardly a challenge. Good to see you, too.”

Yuri snorts. “They’re all too scared to land a hit.”

“I thought you wanted people to be scared of you?”

“Not like _that_. Beka.” Yuri looks at the bed. “What are you doing, anyway?”

“Packing.”

“ _Packing_ , you just got back! Why are you packing?” Wild thoughts of another war on the horizon spring to Yuri’s mind: continued resistance in Yashima, or uprisings in the provinces, or God, another country the Tsar has set his eyes on…

“I’ve been assigned a post in Campania,” Otabek explains, “I’m leaving tomorrow.”

 _Tomorrow_. Yuri might not even have _seen_ him. He scowls.

To his credit, Otabek does look faintly apologetic. “It’s a good opportunity,” he says, “If they keep sending me to different places, to get experience. And then back to the capital, of course.” He shrugs. “Only way to get promoted without family in the right places.”

“I can promote you,” Yuri points out, childishly. “I’m in the right places.” Uncomfortably, terrifyingly close to the right places. But what good is an autocracy if the people with the power can’t get what they want?

“I’m sure that would go over well.”

“Come on, that kind of thing happens in Rus’ all the time.”

Otabek shrugs again. “I’m not Rus’.”

“Of course you’re Rus’. Alatau’s part of Rus’.”

“Tell that to the Rus’.” Otabek sighs, an edge of frustration bleeding through, before shaking his head and quirking his lips. “Anyway, you could go to Campania, too, if you wanted. I hear it’ll be nice there. Warm.”

Yuri’s mouth twists. “I can’t. I have to stay here. Since Viktor’s gone off to fuck around with his—”spy, lover, the Yashiman pig who convinced Viktor to hand him military secrets, the crazy man who begged to be taken to Rus’ and tortured and enslaved“—whore.”

Otabek hums noncommittally. “I see.”

By now, the things on the bed are sorted and stacked into neat piles. Otabek smooths out the blanket, then turns to Yuri. “I have to go feed Zhana, and let her fly. Did you want to come?”

“Yeah, sure,” Yuri says, as if he wasn’t always thrilled to see her.

The darkened mews are full of lesser birds, but Zhana is the biggest. At home in Alatau, Otabek had told him, she’d had a whole yard to herself. In the city, she has to stay tethered to a perch in a small enclosure. The Rus’ falcons are scared of her, rightfully—she’d happily hunt them, if she were hungry and had the chance.

Otabek clicks and chirps and hums to her, and she peeps back. It’d be cute if Yuri didn’t know that she’s a vicious, cunning predator. With a heavy, thick glove on his right hand, Otabek unfastens her from her perch and lets her settle on his arm. Yuri stays a respectful distance away. Zhana’s not tame for anyone but her handler. (“Not even for me,” Otabek insists.)

They walk out to the weathering yard, enclosed from all sides and above but sufficiently large for even Zhana to stretch her wings. Otabek unhoods her, and she turns golden eyes to Yuri before taking off to a higher perch. Otabek’s eyes shine golden, too, the way they do when he’s looking through hers. It’s only for a few seconds, so he’s satisfied with what he sees.

(Otabek’s is another talent Yuri’s _ridiculously_ jealous of. Even if he could only talk to Potya, it would be ten times more useful than just setting things on fire. But Otabek doesn’t think it’s anything special. “Traditionally, it’s not even magic,” he’d pointed out, even though nobody else in the world thinks that outside of Alatau.)

They let Zhana be for a while before Otabek hands Yuri a brown paper package and calls her back. “Open that for me, will you?” he says.

Yuri opens it; it’s full of raw, bloody meat. Zhana looks at him with interest, and he thrusts it towards Otabek, who grins and takes a piece. He’s got little scars all over his hands and fingers and arms, which is nothing, because if Zhana wanted to she could do real damage. She gobbles the meat right up, waiting expectantly for more.

Yuri watches the pile of meat dwindle rapidly as Otabek feeds her, and remembers something the Tsar had said to Viktor. He swallows. “Beka,” he says, “Alatau. It’s—it’s loyal, right?”

Otabek pauses, and Zhana lets out a little hiss of protest before he resumes. Still, his eyebrows are raised. He answers indirectly. “One out of every four of the next generation will have Rus’ blood,” he points out. “More and more are volunteering for the army, or settling on farms. Hardly anyone even remembers when we weren’t part of the empire. Why would you think we’re not loyal?”

Yuri shrugs, eyes to the ground. “I mean. Yeah. Obviously. That’s what I thought.”

When he next looks up, the meat is gone, and both Otabek and Zhana are staring at him with golden eyes. The moment vanishes, and Otabek wipes bloody fingers off on a rag. “Ready to go back in?” he asks Zhana. Yuri’s not really sure if she replies—he doesn’t think that’s how this works—but Otabek nods. “No, I didn’t think so. We’ll go out hunting soon, alright?”

They return Zhana to her enclosure, and Otabek washes his hands in a small basin of cold water. “Did you want to spar?” he offers, face in shadow, “I have some time, I think.”

Yuri shakes his head. “It’s okay.” He wants to tell Otabek about what happened today. He wants to tell him about the Tsar. He wants to tell him about the dreams, and the way candle-flames bend towards him now without his bidding, and how he’s taken up smoking to calm himself down. He wants to fall into his arms and feel safe.

He doesn’t do any of those things. “I should go, anyway,” he says. “Thanks for letting me see Zhana.”

“Any time,” Otabek says. “Hey, Yura?”

“Huh?”

Otabek’s eyes are soft and a little sad. Yuri’s probably imagining it. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

Yuri hunches his shoulders. “Yeah. Of course. Have a good time in Campania,” he says, and turns to go.

**_Empress Suiko, who was once a warrior_ **

The rooms don’t feel like they’re hers.

Not long ago, they were her father’s rooms; now they are her cage. Should she try to leave, she will be gently ushered back inside. Oh, she has a small garden in the back, open to the sky, with tall walls surrounding it. For her protection, of course. She is an empress, after all. She wants for nothing.

Four generations ago, her predecessor was imprisoned in these very same chambers, until loyalists broke the strength of the usurping warlords and raised him up into glory. Four generations ago, they conquered those recalcitrant islands, united their people under one banner. Four generations, to gain and lose an empire.

She should be angry at her father. In his final decision to surrender unconditionally, he’d been prepared to sacrifice her, to sacrifice everything, knowing that he wouldn’t be around to face the consequences. She should mourn him, like a good daughter, wailing and rending her hair. Instead, she is numb.

She passes a hand over the documents on her desk, written out and waiting for her seal. She doubts whether her approval matters, and contemplates simply leaving them. They have been drafted without her input in the first place. She’s not expected to read them.

Her first and final diplomatic duty as empress was to travel to Rus’ and watch them break her countryman, guiltily and desperately grateful that it wasn’t her. Grateful that Viktor Nikiforov likes pretty men, and grateful for his jealousy. For all the consternation over his choice, she knows why he made it. She hadn’t missed his twitch of glee as Katsuki Yuuri’s power was cut off, after all, nor had she missed the frail boasting and gossip by those of the Yashima that claimed Katsuki’s skill as a ice mage surpassed even Viktor’s.

If Viktor had had other preferences, or less insecurity—she shudders at the thought of the conqueror’s hands on her, his body on her, his child in her. At least Katsuki Yuuri can’t become pregnant. Still, she is grateful for his sacrifice.

She’s not expected to read the decrees, but she’s read them several times. If her father had hoped for favorable terms from the Rus’, he’d be sorely upset over their contents. A return to the old crop-based taxation system, to supplement the current monetary taxation that has already been pushed to the breaking point by the cost of the war. (The rice, fish, and tea thus gathered will, theoretically, be centrally redistributed to starving provinces). The re-establishment of a public school system for young children, where they will learn to read, write, and speak a single language. (The language in question is unspecified. It is clear which one it will be). Penal labor for mines and factories, made up of those convicted of war crimes. (By the standards listed, she is a war criminal. She has immunity to prosecution.) The seizure of land from the families of those convicted, to be distributed to the freed Rus’ serfs who have completed their 15 year term in the military. (They will not be subject to the land tax for a period of five years).

She doubts whether her approval is necessary, because she has two brothers to take her place. One of them, who is afforded slightly more freedom of movement than herself, fought by her side. The other was begat by her father on a second wife. He is four, and he is living with the children of the appointed Rus’ governor.

In Alatau and the other steppe provinces, the ruling families were beheaded and replaced, but in the generations since them the Rus’ have grown more subtle. The leaders of the Campanian Republic, for instance, were simply voted out of office, then picked off one by one. The duke of Bohemia drank himself to death. The abdicated king of Lechia, planning sanctioned travel outside of the empire, was paralyzed and bedridden by a stroke beforehand. The queen of Curonia, memorably and gruesomely, was torn to pieces by a furious mob of her own people. And some twenty-two years ago, the tsar of Rus’ died of a heart attack alone in his rooms, to be succeeded by his second son, a competent physiologic caster.

Her poor half-brother will make a wonderful puppet. They’ll likely keep him alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly difficult content in this chapter includes: mention of human trafficking; mention of (hypothetical) forced impregnation; mention of burning people to death during wartime; casual racism; mention of dismemberment. 
> 
> In Hypothermia, the Yashima are defeated in war, and Yuuri is picked by Viktor to be his new consort. This tradition involves subjecting the chosen consort to various tortures, as well as casting spells that a) force the subject to physically obey commands from and b) make them unable to lie to their spouse/spouse's blood relatives. It turns out that Yuuri and Viktor were in a relationship before the war, and Viktor had been passing information to Yuuri throughout. Yuuri asked to be chosen, in the hopes that his unassuming status as a weak, subservient prisoner would allow him to eventually get close to and assassinate the Tsar.


	2. Revolutions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which I introduce a billion new plot threads…

**_Viktor Nikiforov, heir to the largest empire in the world_ **

 

As much as Viktor knows that their tour of the country is a necessary, strategic part of their plans, he can’t wait for it to be over. He’s tired of making nice with people he doesn’t like. He’s tired of making nice with people he _does_ like. Each word out of his mouth is a careful balance between winning over the right interest groups and not appearing to directly oppose the Tsar’s official policy, and he’s sure he’s made missteps.

Yuuri, perpetually at his side, is a calming presence, but he’s too good at his job. Affectations meant to convince everyone else that he’s harmless, subservient, and not particularly intelligent mean that sometimes when even Viktor looks at him he sees a mindless, pretty doll. Though Yuuri drops the facade whenever they’re alone, Viktor can’t push away the wholly irrational fear that one day he won’t: that the nasty, parasitic cysts and tendrils of physiologic magic that are anchored onto his bones will curl their reaching fingers up into his brain and snuff out everything that Yuuri is.

Worse, in some ways, are the times when he’s not acting: today, for instance, when the young aspiring doctor had led them to a bank of elevators, and laughed when Yuuri balked and pressed close to Viktor’s side. “Do they not have these in Yashima?” he’d said.

“Apparently not,” Viktor had responded with a blithe smile, squeezing Yuuri’s hand as they stepped up into the small, enclosed space together, his heart squeezing at the same time. Yuuri knows damn well what an elevator is—it’s the compartment, and the darkness it rises into, that he doesn’t like.

Now, Yuuri snuffles in his sleep, curling into Viktor’s side and trapping more of the blanket under him. He has a terrible tendency to end up completely wrapped in the covers, leaving hardly any for Viktor.

It doesn’t _really_ matter. Viktor doesn’t get cold. Neither does Yuuri, or he shouldn’t, anyway. He didn’t. Tonight, Viktor is uncannily sure, will be one of those nights where he does.

Sure enough, as Viktor lies sleepless in the dark, Yuuri begins to shiver. The temperature around him hasn’t dropped—if nothing else, Viktor can make sure of that—but he instinctively burrows in closer, winding up with his nose pressed into the side of Viktor’s chest. He makes little whimpering sounds, and once again Viktor debates whether to rouse him.

Makkachin wakes up first, rising grumpily from her place at the foot of the bed to plod over to the space left recently vacant. She turns around twice and plops down, effectively trapping Yuuri between the two of them. He kicks his legs, opening up more space in his blanket roll, wriggling, and his breath starts to pick up.

One of those nights, too.

“Yuuri,” Viktor says, firmly, and reaches to shake at his shoulder. “Yuuri.” He doesn’t tell him to wake up, because if he does—and he’s made this mistake—the magic will force Yuuri’s eyes open, twist his larger muscles to the point of pain, and bring him shatteringly into wakefulness.

This way, Yuuri wakes up with blearily squinting eyes and vague confusion. He mutters into Viktor’s chest, “Vitya?”

“Bad dream?” Viktor asks, and Yuuri frowns.

“Don’t remember,” he says, blinking, “Did I wake you?” He looks down at himself and the mess of blankets, then extracts the bulk of them from underneath him, much to Makkachin’s displeasure at the additional movement. “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” says Viktor, who has not yet fallen asleep. “I just wanted to check.”

“Mmm,” Yuuri says, already drifting off again, this time with an arm draped over Viktor’s body. If they’re lucky, he won’t go right back into the same nightmare.

Viktor settles back into watching, as the moonlight grows longer and the night drags on.

 

**_Lady Katsuki Mari, heir to the small seaside domains of Hasetsu_ **

 

Mari hears the quick patter of Minami Kenjirou’s steps before she sees him come trotting up, face pinched despite his overall energetic air. She’s not convinced he’s capable of moving at a clip slower than most people’s jogging pace, or of sitting down for longer than a few minutes. It’s alternately tiring and invigorating to be near him, depending on how annoyed she’s feeling at the time.

Lately, she’s been more annoyed and stressed than usual. Of course, things haven’t been usual for years, not since the blockade of Rus’ ships appeared just outside of Hasetsu’s harbor and kept them teetering on the edge of occupation throughout the war. They’d fended them off, until formal orders came through to let the warships into port, where they now sit like parasitic galls feeding off of Hasetsu’s limited supply of provisions.

“We did the recount,” Kenjirou says, “It’s, uh, it’s still not looking very good? If we set aside the land tax, and don’t assume any more—well, we can’t assume any more, the last of the harvest came in, or at least what people are willing to give and I don’t blame them, we can try to bully it out of them but, um, I don’t know if it will work—and account for spoilage, oh and the supplementary warehouse has had rats, giant rats, and they’ve gotten rid of them but we don’t know how much is contaminated, and Nishigori and I are keeping the warehouses chilled but it doesn’t get rid of all the insects—”

Mari lets this news wash over her, listening with half an ear. She’s found it’s best to let Kenjirou talk, when he wants to, because it’s much better than the times he clams up and won’t say a word. Like when Mari’s mother had asked, gently, if he wouldn’t want to go back home, instead of sticking around Hasetsu.

Eventually he gets to the point. It’s not something she wants to hear, though she can’t say it comes as a surprise— “A few months,” he says. “It’s not enough to last the winter. Even if we reduce rations more.” He takes a deep breath. “The—the fishing isn’t better. They’re not coming back.”

They wouldn’t, not in a few months’ time. Not for a couple years, probably. The Rus’ blockade had drained the surrounding seas of natural resources, magical and mundane.

Kenjirou fidgets. “Did you think about it?” he asks, eagerly.

She has. Oh, she _has_. It’s reckless, a short term solution, maybe a little stupid. But preventing the collection of the new land tax would be enough to get them through, and then the harvest might pick up, and none the wiser. She’s already thought of exactly the places to do the work; a bend in the railroad tracks that is already showing signs of wear, a short tunnel that could easily collapse. The warm glow of accomplishment and a sense of revenge.

“They say it’s going to feed other parts of Yashima,” Kenjirou presses, “But you know they’re just going to sell it off to fill the Rus’ pockets.”

“The ships,” she says. “Are you sure they won’t just send cargo ships?”

“We’re so _small_ ,” he says, “If the ships already in the harbor can’t go—and I know I can make sure of that—they won’t push it. Yashima barely has a navy anymore. It’ll be enough. It’ll delay it, at least. I’m not an earth mage, I can’t do it without you.”

She takes a deep breath. She’s known, since he first proposed it in a whispered, frantic conversation, that she’ll do it.

“In two weeks,” she says. “The moon will be dark. We need to time it so that someone finds out quickly, so it doesn’t derail a train…”

 

—

 

Kenjirou, much to Mari’s despair, is entirely unable to keep his ebullience from spilling forth in the next week. _She’s_ trying to figure out how to avoid the riots reported in other provinces, mobs of people breaking into warehouses and taking as much as they can carry. Where Rus’ soldiers exist, the riots are put down harshly and decisively: local Yashima governance is not much better. Mari will happily risk her life rather than allow her people to be murdered.

She oversees the weekly distribution of household rations. It’s easy to see the resentment from the farmers, who were forced to sell their rice to the government and receive much less in return than they had produced. They sneer and glare at the fishing families, who have precious little fish to catch; more than once, Mari has had to break up an imminent fistfight. What united feeling there might have been during the years of war is rapidly rotting away: the foe they would most like to fight is heavily armed and out of reach, and the only foe they have is each other.

She wants to tell them that everything will be alright, that they’ll have enough food for everyone. But she’s capable of keeping her mouth shut, _unlike_ Kenjirou, who assures people with a wink that their needs will be taken care of.

And so the two of them are summoned to her father’s office, where he stresses over the same numbers she does while attempting to oversee the rest of the prefecture besides: the marriages and inheritances and land disputes and petty crimes that still go on, even when it feels like everything ought to be frozen. “Minami,” he nods, “Mari. Sit.”

He steeples his fingers together with a sigh. His forehead is wrinkled; his hair is greying. Though he was full of hope during the war, he has barely smiled since their journey to Rus’. He comes across as tired, and stooped, and old.

“I cannot put too much stock in rumors,” he says, at last. “But I need to remind you both that we must avoid drastic measures. My son is held hostage in the Rus’ court. Our country is held at the thin mercy of the Rus’, and our people daily work a step away from their swordpoints. Any risk you take upon yourselves will be magnified and put upon the shoulders of every man, woman, and child in this town. Do you understand?”

Kenjirou frowns at him. “Yes,” he says, unconvincingly.

Toshiya’s look is piercing. “I want you to swear,” he says, “That you will do nothing to sabotage the Rus’. You will not attack our country’s infrastructure. You will not give the occupiers a reason to deal with us as criminals.”

“Sir,” Kenjirou begins, fiercely. “I didn’t know you were the kind of ruler to sit and do nothing while your people starve—”

“We are not starving yet,” Toshiya says firmly.

“We are eating _insects_!” Kenjirou leaps to his feet. “We are months away from famine; no, we’re already there. There’s no more fish in the ocean. There’s no more grain in the fields. We’re expected to give up our store to feed the fat rats in the capital, who started the war in the first place…”

“Sit down!” Her father rarely raises her voice; he never shouts. Even Mari winces.

“The people in the capital are our countrymen and allies,” he says, “If you allow the Rus’ to turn us against each other, then that is when they win.”

“They’ve already won,” Kenjirou says.

“Do you believe that, Minami Kenjirou?”

He’s silent.

“My son—your commander—suffered starvation,” Toshiya says. “Starvation, and torture, and worse. He sleeps in the conqueror’s bed, chained there by his own body. If he can do that, and survive that, then you can eat crayfish.”

Bringing up Yuuri was exactly the right thing to do with Kenjirou—he still worships the ground her brother once walked on—but it only makes Mari angrier.

“All that for nothing, then?” she says. “Yuuri starved, and so will we, and we don’t even try to make it otherwise?”

“Minami,” he says, ignoring her,  “I want you to swear it.”

“I swear,” Kenjirou says, almost too softly to hear.

“Good. You may go. Mari, come with me.”

Kenjirou stalks off, hot tears behind his eyelids, and Mari dutifully trails after her father.

Hasetsu is full of natural hot springs, and the castle grounds have them as well; a public set, just adjacent to the castle in their own bathhouse, and a private spring within the grounds proper. That is where he takes her.

The Katsukis, as long as Mari’s known, take care of the private spring themselves. She hasn’t been back here for some time, but her father must have, because it’s not in nearly as ill repair as she might have thought.

“It’s been a while since we’ve cleaned the spring,” he explains, doffing his relatively fine outer coat.

“I have things to do,” she says.

“Yes,” he agrees, “And this is one of them. Come, help me drain the water.”

Yuuri, Mari recalls, got out of hot spring duty when he was fairly young. This was in part because he’d devoted all his time to learning to dance, and in part because—other than the actual scrubbing of the main basin—he wasn’t as useful as Mari, and Toshiya, and her grandmother before that. All of them earth mages, who are able to pinch off the rock to shut off the flow of water, using premade channels to redirect its flow. The spring has been shaped to approximate the bay, and the water flows through an overly complex filtration system with an intake that mimics the sea-caves at the tip of the peninsula. Mari has spent many long hours painstakingly cleaning out that filtration system, directing scrub brushes through it with only her sense of the rock to guide her.

“It’s a very nice map, don’t you think?” Toshiya says, as they scrub.

“I guess,” Mari replies, shortly and a little rude.

“After the big earthquake—you were just a tiny thing—we had to reshape it,” he says. “The shape of the bay changed, you see. It still changes.”

This is going to be some drawn-out metaphor about natural cycles, change, and the patience of the earth. Mari can hear it already. She sighs.

“Have you been in the sea caves?” he asks, “The real ones.”

She frowns. “What? No. They’re dangerous.” They open up only to the ocean, but the honeycomb of caves extends far underneath the peninsula. Even an earth mage could get easily lost, or trapped as the water rises.

“Hmm. They can be,” he says, rising to his feet and arching his back. “Oof. I’m getting old.”

“...Have _you_ been in the sea caves?” She can’t imagine her relatively demure father going exploring.

He shrugs. “They’d be a good place to hide things, I think. No one would ever find them. I’m sure people have hidden things there before, in fact.”

“Papa, have you been in the sea caves?” And what did you hide there, she thinks.

“When things are going well, say,” he continues, “But you know they might not always. There are parts of them, I’m sure, that never see the ocean water.”

“ _Papa_.”

He taps his hand on the floor, above the filtration intake system, the sea caves in miniature. “It’s a very nice map.” She turns to look at it, at the intricate series of tunnels and hollows whose purpose she was never quite sure of, which she spent hours upon hours of her childhood painstakingly traversing by feel.

Toshiya takes her hand. “Be careful, my dear,” he says, “It’s not much. But it might be just enough.”

 

**_Stepan Daniilovich Rysakov, heir to a grand tradition of Rus’ independent thought and action_ **

 

“Styopa,” Polina sighs, crinkling her heavy dark brows and leaning her entire body towards Stepan’s, “Make this idiot shut up, won’t you?” The idiot in question, one Roman Prokopievich and a dear friend to them both, swings around towards her, face red with drink and patriotic fervor. “Shut up! Ha! Damn them! I’ll shout it to the rooftops!” He breathes in deep. The air swirls around him, ready to project his voice far outside the boundaries of the small chamber. Polina flinches. Stepan rolls his eyes. “You may damn them all you want, Roma,” he says, raising his voice to cut through the threatening breeze, “but refrain from damning Polya’s drawing-room as well, if you please. Or our poor ears.” The wind dies down with a petulant hiss. Roman grimaces. “And so I am silenced,” he declaims, “By my peers, just as we are all silenced by the oppressors, as the poor peasant folk of this nation are ground down under the heel of the tyrant! But we,” he gestures indiscriminately at the dozen or so seated around him, “are happy to sit and drink and do nothing, so as to ensure we do not damage a _drawing-room_.”

“Roma,” Polina starts, and Stepan lays a hand on hers quellingly.

“Sit down, Roma,” he says, “Are we not all here, in this room, so as to break away from the terrible inertia of the intelligentsia? Are we not all here exactly so as to take action? A little patience for your friends, I beg of you.”

Roman, for all his deprecation of drinking, is happy to do so himself once handed another full glass of wine. Stepan settles back in his chair, happy to watch and listen to the flows of conversation. Privately, of course, he agrees with Roman: though the people in the room are here specifically because they claim to harbor the right kind of conviction, Stepan suspects it will be difficult to coax any kind of action out of them. They, to a man, have too much to lose.

A knock comes on the door, erratic, and the room hushes immediately as faces turn towards it. Stepan rises to open it.

It’s a young man, eyes rimmed in red. He sways back and forth, and hiccups on the end of a sob.

“This is—this is Polya’s...”

Stepan frowns, but Polina speaks up behind him. “Oh, it’s only Georgi,” she says, “Let him in, Styopa. I invited him.”

Georgi looks at him hopefully, and with a resigned slump Stepan lets him in. He looks vaguely familiar, maybe, like he’s been at some other meetings before.

“He’s harmless,” Polina hisses at him when Stepan sits back down, and pats the open space next to her. “Zhora, come, sit. What’s wrong?”

“A-anya,” he chokes out, sniffling into a handkerchief. Anya, Stepan knows, a little: she’s in the same kind of circles, though she’s not particularly bold in her views. A dilettantish woman, happy to talk about revolutionary ideas without the guts to implement them.

“She broke up with you, didn’t she?” Polina coos, “There, there. Didn’t you say you’d win her back?”

Georgi shakes his head wildly. “She has a new suitor,” he sniffs, “An _officer_. A _baron_. She s-said I couldn’t possibly,” now he falls into another wordless mess of hiccuping, “Couldn’t possibly measure up.”

“Oh, honey,” Polina pats his back. “Because he’s a baron, is it? What a shame.”

It wouldn’t surprise Stepan at all if Anya were the sort of person to reject a man like Georgi for the sake of a baron. The room, having somewhat collectively decided that Georgi is no threat, slowly begins to build up conversation again.

Stepan watches Georgi, still blubbering; he has a feeling they’re going to get along just fine.

 

**_Phichit Chulanont, farspeaker at the Ayutthayan consulate in Bohemia_ **

 

Autumn leaves squelch between Phichit’s boots and the worn cobbles, and he wrinkles his nose against the increasingly heavy rain. In comparison to the people he passes, he’s terribly overdressed for the weather, but he’s never been one for unnecessary self-deprivation. He likes to be warm. The weight of a few sideways glances at the silly foreigner is a small price to pay.

It had been surprisingly, almost suspiciously, easy to secure an assignment in the Rus’ province. Ayutthaya maintains a consulate in Bohemia, an embassy by any other name—the graying, no-nonsense Siriporn had ridden out the transition gracefully, taking her demotion from ambassador to consul-general in stride and remaining firm in her conviction to stay. She’s lived here for going on thirty-five years.

Her assigned farspeakers, in contrast, tend not to last so much as a year. Phichit’s honestly not sure why—she’s no more demanding than any of his other clients, and his workday is quite predictable. Maybe it’s the overall air of gloom that seems to be settled over the city. The native Bohemians tromping about their daily tasks slow almost imperceptibly when the Rus’ appear, so that everything of importance is conducted in a haze of molasses. (“Lazy,” sniff the officials, with an even more derogatory undercurrent— _no wonder they lost, you see_.) Siriporn’s dealings, though, never seem to have a problem.

It’s taken a few weeks for him to settle in, but he’s spent enough time wandering to familiarize himself with the general layout of the city. The place he’s heading is on the edges of the business district, fading into rougher environs. He’s not bothered by anyone on the way. People keep their heads down, here, except the uniformed Rus’—and with them, his obviously Ayutthayan features protect him from harassment.

He stops under an awning as the rain starts to plunk down harder, vainly hoping it will let up. The door beside him is the entrance to a bookstore; it’s closed at this hour, not unusual in the early evening around here. The merchandise within has been covered with canvas, though paper posters tacked to the interior of the windows declare that the latest in popular serials, translated from the Albian, the Gallian, and so on, are readily available. At the prices posted, it’s unlikely the original authors know anything about said translations. _Help wanted_ ads are posted in a corner, or so Phichit assumes—he knows very little of the language—along with some more garishly illustrated prints offering services ranging from fortune-telling to haircuts.

One flyer stands out, if only because it is written in multiple languages, Ayutthayan among them. _The garden is glorious in spring_ , it repeats, line by line in different scripts, _where your home is_. Religious, perhaps, or some sort of poetry.

The rain shows no sign of dissipating, and indeed seems to be getting worse. Phichit breathes out a sigh—could he have picked a worse day to go out?—and steels himself. Would that he were an elemental mage. All the illusions in the world will not keep him dry.

He comes, in due time and soaking wet, to a nondescript door with neither knocker nor handle. He peers at it, not entirely sure he’s arrived at the right place, but figures he has very little to lose by knocking anyway. In the worst case, no one will answer.

After a solid minute of waiting with no acknowledgement, Phichit raises his hand to knock once more right before the door creaks open by itself. Directly behind it are a set of stairs, unlit at the top but with a warm glow coming from somewhere below. Well, then. He proceeds down the stairway, conscientiously closing the door behind him and shaking himself off as much as he’s able.

The store is at the bottom of the stairs, and there is no one in it. It’s a typical artificer’s shop otherwise, rife with the ticking of clocks and the gleam of metal, simultaneously sparse and overcrowded. It’s lit not by magelight but by lamp, though the lamps are themselves enchanted. Indeed, enchantment lays heavy and haphazard over not only the objects for sale but the shelves, the floor, the desk: it’s quite bewildering, to the point where he’s sure he’d get a headache if he stared at it too long.

He shuffles his feet. “Hello?” he calls out, in Albian. “Anybody here?”

There’s a crash from somewhere, a muffled curse, and with a few more clunking noises a man comes stumbling out from a door Phichit hadn’t even noticed existed. “Hello!” he exclaims, running long fingers through his light brown hair, “What can I do for you?” His grin is wide and open, a stark contrast to his countrymen’s general demeanor.

Phichit smiles back. “Are you Mr. Nekola?”

“Mr. Nekola! Ah, that was my father, and my brother after that. Call me Emil. What can I do for you, Mr. …?”

“Chulanont,” he introduces himself, “Phichit Chulanont. I have a commission request. And a proposition.”

“I’m afraid I don’t take well to being propositioned by someone I’ve only just met,” Emil responds, grin never wavering, “But I do take on commissions! What are you thinking?”

After weeks of dreariness, Emil’s manner is practically contagious. “What a shame,” Phichit replies without thinking, “We’ll have to get to know each other better, then. As for the commission…” he withdraws Yuuri’s gold ring from around his neck, and holds it up to the light. “I’m told this was originally of Campanian make, and that you may have had some experience with the folk of that country. While it would be ideal for me to return it to their hands directly, I wonder if you would be the second-best choice.” He hesitates, then adds, “If it means anything to you, this was given to me by a newly adopted Rus’ gentleman.”

Emil’s eyebrows rise. “Indeed? And are you familiar with the artificer who made it?”

“Ah.” Phichit exaggerates the wry twist of his smile. “I’m not so familiar with these Western surnames. Crispino, perhaps?”

“Hmm. Well, you must be mistaken; the Crispinos have not an artificer among them, not anymore. The Cristianos, maybe. What work needs doing on it?”

“Oh—I was hoping you could duplicate the piece.”

Emil considers him for a long moment, smile still affixed to his face. “Come into my workshop, and I’ll take a closer look.” He holds his hand out for the ring, and Phichit drops it in his palm.

They go back through the little door Emil had originally come from, and Emil shuts it behind them. The workshop is windowless but brightly lit, surprisingly neat compared to the hubbub of the shop itself. Emil sits on a stool, and peers at the ring through an artificer’s loupe. His sleeve slips down his arm, and Phichit chokes back a shocked breath.

Emil’s exposed left arm, and probably his entire gloved hand, is made of intricately constructed metal and wood, laced through with delicate artifice.

“Problem?” Emil says, looking up briefly.

“Uh,” Phichit grasps for something polite to say. Instead, he comes up with something honest. “No, I just thought when people said you’re more machine than man, it was because you worked a lot.”

To his relief, Emil breaks out into big, barking laughter. “Well, I do that too!” He turns the artificial hand back and forth, opening and closing the fingers. “Looks real, doesn’t it? The leg, too. All my work, of course.” He taps his left foot on the ground. “There was an accident when I was a boy. Lucky for me, I have a gift for machinery.” “An accident?”

“Mmhmm.” Emil doesn’t elaborate further. He clicks his tongue, tilting the ring back and forth. “Well, Mr. Chulanont. An adopted Rus’ gentleman, you say?”

“Yes,” Phichit replies.

Emil turns to regard him, setting the ring down. “This piece is entirely inert,” he says, “And it wasn’t made by an artificer. But I’m sure you know that. Why do you want me to get it to the Crispino family?”

“It’s not inert,” Phichit protests, “It’s a conduit…”

“Yes, yes,” Emil interrupts. “The question remains.”

“The person who gave it to me asked me to have it delivered to them,” Phichit says.

“I’m not a post office,” Emil says. “And you’ll forgive me if I’m skeptical about handing over an unknown object from an ally of the Rus’ to the head of a once-powerful Campanian family. It’s a conduit, you say. What does it do?”

Phichit grits his teeth. Somehow, he’d expected Yuuri’s confidence in sending him to Nekola would not be misplaced. “Farspeaking,” he says. “That’s all it does. There’s a paired ring that allows verbal communication.”

Emil’s gaze darkens, though he never stops smiling. “Don’t lie to me.”

“What—I’m not lying!”

Emil gestures to the ring. “There’s traces of ice magic on that, and nothing else. You explain to me how ice results in farspeaking, and then we can talk. Otherwise, I’ll kindly ask you to leave.” He picks up the ring, handing it out to Phichit, and clearly expecting the latter response.

“It’s a _conduit_ ,” Phichit insists, “It—look, I’m a farspeaker,” he says. “But I’m an illusionist, too. That’s not uncommon, right? Even though scientifically they don’t really have much to do with each other: illusions are closely related to physio, and farspeaking is only ever categorized with animal whispering if it’s categorized with anything at all. But I don’t have separate reservoirs. I have one. When I cast a glamor, I filter that reservoir through the right patterns to get an illusion, and when I farspeak, I take the same fundamental source of magic and set it up in a different way.”

“Yes,” Emil sighs, “I may not be a caster, but I am familiar with such arguments. A Grand Unified Theory is fine academically, but practically I don’t see what your point is.”

“Well, that’s the point!” Phichit throws his hands up. “It’s not academic. It works. The reason there’s ice magic on there is because an ice mage used it, and the ring filters the spell through a decomposition sequence, extracts the primary components—which are _not_ inherently elemental—and reconstructs them back into a different form, in this case _farspeaking_. Look—” he grabs at a piece of paper on Emil’s desk, snatching a pen up as well. “Here, if we assume you can approximate a spell as a linear combination of individual attributes…”

Emil sits there and watches him work, peering at the mess of equations that Phichit still knows by heart. When he’s done, he tosses the pen and paper down emphatically.

“Eight-point-three percent,” Emil says. “Using standard theoretical estimates for principal components, and conservative filter attenuation.”

“It’s about four-point-seven, in practice,” Phichit admits. “And it only works with a single known frequency, which is why the ring has a partner.”

“Exactly how much farspeaking are you going to get out of something that allows through only four-point-seven percent of the input _and_ is still vulnerable to distance-based signal losses?”

“Not very _much_ ,” Phichit says, “It’ll do verbal communication. And the input power has to be large. And you need two mages for two-way communication. In practice, there’s not really a lot of people who can use it, especially if their discipline is further removed from farspeaking. It’d usually be much easier to just hire a farspeaker.”

“Which is why you haven’t sold this technology for a fortune,” Emil muses, “I assume you made it.”

“Yes,” Phichit admits.

“You’d be able to solve some of your attenuation problem with adaptive filters,” Emil says, “There aren’t any right now, yes? Which is why it looks inert. It doesn’t require a separate power source.”

“Uh,” Phichit wrinkles his nose. “Yeah, probably. But I couldn’t figure out how to power it, and I think you’d need something other than a ring—the form factor wouldn’t work.”

“A pendant, maybe,” Emil says, “Or a wristband. I have a few examples that probably involve more power than this would need. Actually, if you had a large enough system—still portable, but desktop sized?—you might be able to allow it to choose different frequencies and avoid the strict pairing requirement.”

Phichit frowns. “It would have to be able to navigate connection protocols,” he says, “That takes some farspeakers years to learn.”

“The theory is well known, though, right? I don’t know much about farspeaking.”

“Sure, it’s pretty standard. Uhm.” Phichit squints. “Does that mean you’ll do it?”

“Deliver this to Campania? It depends. Who, exactly, is this Rus’ gentleman?”

“Oh, for—I was really under the impression you’d know,” Phichit says. “Katsuki Yuuri. Didn’t he get in touch with you, or anything?”

“Katsuki—Viktor Nikiforov’s consort?” Emil raises his eyebrows and blinks. “Oh. You know, I believe he did. Months ago, though, before…” he waves a hand. “All that. I thought nothing had come of it, I thought…” he looks at Phichit with new eyes. “Huh.”

“ _Huh_.” Phichit repeats.

“I’ll make you a deal,” Emil says. “I’ll make sure this gets to Mickey, though I’m still not sure what he’d want with it. And you and I work on version two. You’ll be sticking around Bohemia?”

“I work at the consulate,” Phichit says. “So you trust me now?”

“Not entirely,” Emil grins. “You shouldn’t trust me, either. Now! Tell me more about what this part does, here—if it’s what I think it is, we should be able to insert a feedback loop…”

 

**_Nishigori Takeshi, civilian port administrator without a port to administer_ **

 

“It’s a special kind of fish,” Yuuko explains, setting the bowls down in front of their daughters, “It comes from the rice paddies instead of the sea!”

The girls, who are old enough to be picky eaters but not old enough to turn their noses up at rice-paddy ‘fish’, descend on the food like wild beasts. Takeshi’s stomach growls. He forces a smile and says, “Actually, I’m not really that hungry today.”

Yuuko’s glare freezes him in his seat as truly as if she’d done it with her magic. “But we always eat our dinner anyway, right girls? We want to grow up big and strong.”

“Daddy’s already big and strong,” Axel reasons, eyeing his bowl. Takeshi looks at his wife pleadingly.

“Eat,” she says, and sits down with her own meal.

Later, she sends the girls off and corrals Takeshi to wash the dishes instead. They’re about to have a conversation, but he’s too much of a pushover to drag his heels.

“It’s not that I don’t want to eat your cooking,” he says, looking down at the bowl in his hands. It’s been scraped completely dry.

“I _know_ ,” Yuuko snaps, “You used to eat caterpillars on a dare, Takeshi, don’t play this up like you’ve all of a sudden got a delicate constitution.” She snatches the bowl from him. “What good will it do our daughters if you starve yourself? What good will it do _me_?”

One meal where they could gorge themselves, he wants to say, one night where they don’t leave the table wanting more. Yuuko sees right through him, like always.

“Our girls,” she says, “Have a good, strong father, and a tough mother. They can be a little bit hungry for a little while, and they will live. But if _you_ collapse because you thought you weren’t important enough to eat, where will that leave our family?”

Takeshi shakes his head and steps over to embrace his wife. She clutches onto his arm, taking deep breaths.

“I’m not going to leave you,” he says. “I promise.”

“I know,” she whispers. “I know.” She wipes tears away with the back of her hand.

 

—

 

It’s only a few days later when he spots the ships on the horizon.

He stops in his tracks. They’re not Yashiman, that much is clear, but they’re not Rus’ either. They’re just in view, barely into the bay that forms a natural safe haven for ships. He turns on his heel, rushing up to the watchtower that affords the best view of the harbor aside from the cliffs themselves.

The Rus’ soldiers stationed inside are playing some sort of card game. Takeshi ignores them, straining to see the colors of the ships. Has the government reopened trade?

“Hey,” one of the soldiers says, in terribly accented Albian, “What’s the problem?”

“No problem,” Takeshi says, his own Albian not so fluent, “No problem.” His heart is light. The ships are flying Acadian colors.

Of course, it’s not easy for him to do his job—much of which was at one point processing vessels coming into port—when the Rus’ commander, upon realizing the ships are there, immediately moves to block their entrance. Between shouting in various languages, flag waving, and a threatening burst of fire from the Rus’, it’s agreed upon to have the three ships moor themselves a safe distance away.

A single representative is allowed to come on shore, a young man with a Huaxian tint to his features and an air of authority. “Is there a problem?” he begins in Albian, to which the Rus’ commander huffs.

“No entry,” he barks, with a heavy accent. “No Albian.”

With hardly a blink, and to Takeshi’s great relief, the man switches to fluent Yashiman easily. “We are merchant vessels under the protection of the Acadian crown. We ask for winter harbor, and carry food and medical supplies as part of a humanitarian aid program.” He glances at Takeshi. “To be delivered to the civilian administrators of this specific province.”

“We’d be delighted to accept…” Takeshi begins, only to be cut off by the Rus’ commander, who makes a sharp gesture to a subordinate of his.

“This port is barred to all incoming vessels, military and non-military,” he snaps. “You may not dock, and I advise you move on.”

The man’s bland demeanor is worthy of any Yashiman. “Winter storms are approaching,” he says, “Let us remain in the bay until they pass.” He pauses, then adds, “Acadia is well aware of the actions that Rus’ chooses to take in her treatment of Acadian civilians.”

The commander’s glare only grows heavier. He turns as another Rus’ comes, commencing a short, angry conversation with her. She’s a farspeaker—she nods and opens up a verbal connection, which is quickly answered.

Takeshi and the Acadian man wait while the Rus’ have their deliberations. It’s not long before the commander breaks the connection off and says, “You may remain moored in the bay. You may not come ashore, except for one person at a time. You may not deliver supplies, nor”—he swings his glance to Takeshi—“may other vessels meet you to take them on.”

“Understood,” the man says, with a wink that is so brief as to go unnoticed.

Takeshi offers a token protest—anything else  might be suspicious, and he knows it will do no good—which is summarily dismissed by the Rus’, and thereafter makes his way up the hill, towards the lord’s castle.

“Lady Katsuki,” he bows to Mari. “I have news.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Possibly difficult content in this chapter includes: mention of human trafficking; mention of (hypothetical) forced impregnation; mention of burning people to death during wartime; casual racism; mention of dismemberment. 
> 
> In Hypothermia, the Yashima are defeated in war, and Yuuri is picked by Viktor to be his new consort. This tradition involves subjecting the chosen consort to various tortures, as well as casting spells that a) force the subject to physically obey commands from and b) make them unable to lie to their spouse/spouse's blood relatives. It turns out that Yuuri and Viktor were in a relationship before the war, and Viktor had been passing information to Yuuri throughout. Yuuri asked to be chosen, in the hopes that his unassuming status as a weak, subservient prisoner would allow him to eventually get close to and assassinate the Tsar.


End file.
